Exit Stage Left
by Alphecca
Summary: Sarah has disappeared and now Sherlock and John are faced with an infuriating locked room mystery with no body, no actual locked doors and plenty of witnesses who witnessed literally nothing. Can they save Sarah or is it already too late? Pre-slash
1. Chapter 1

My first Sherlock fic! Woo! It will be slightly slashy probably but mostly it's going to be a good mystery (I hope :) ), I'll save the fluff and smuttiness for the sequel unless demand is strong ;) Let me know what you think, I thrive on reviews.

Disclaimer: Do not own copyright, Fair Use, etc...

* * *

><p><strong>Exit Stage Left<strong>

"Carry your own bloody bag!"

"Don't be absurd John," Sherlock gestured at the limp left hand in a sling, "I am injured."

"Come off it," John dumped the suitcase unceremoniously. It made a rattling noise that had the airport security staff look at them suspiciously, "it's a sprain and you're right handed."

"It hurts," Sherlock kept on walking toward the exit, "it's taking all my fortitude not to swoon from the intense pain."

He did not even bother trying to act the part of someone about to swoon.

"My leg hurts too," John shut his mouth when he realised how loud he was speaking. He picked up the case and hurried after Sherlock. When he reached him, he hissed, "you don't see me whinging like a little girl."

"Ah, but your pain is only in your head," Sherlock quickened his pace, "mine is real and constant."

"The pain in my arse is constant too," John grumbled. Sherlock gave him a puzzled look. John rolled his eyes, "You Sherlock," he said with some satisfaction.

"If you didn't want me near your arse, John, you should have said so," Sherlock spoke loudly and John did not miss the little smirk on his friend's face as the old lady walking near them towards the taxi ranks gave them a scandalised look. John felt the familiar burn of a blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks.

"I hate it when you do that!" John glared. He usually gave in to Sherlock's whimsies but he was to tired mentally and physically to let himself be abused by his flatmate, "When you use my own words against me."

"Do I?" Sherlock looked him up and down, "I thought you were flirting with me again."

"Good God!" the old lady crossed herself and left. Just as John was starting to turn to apologise to her a taxi slid into the parking spot and Sherlock opened the door and motioned for him to get in looking smug.

"I'm straight!" he complained more out of habit by now. He could feel a headache coming on.

"Whatever you say sir, it's all the same to me," the cabbie gestured for them to get in.

"After you, darling," John glared at him but the cabbie was looking at them impatiently. He slid the two cases into the cab and sat down. As he passed under Sherlock's arm, he mumbled, "I think I liked you better when you didn't have a sense of humour."

He did not look at Sherlock when the other slid in next to him. Instead, he fished is cellphone out of his pocket and dialled Sarah's number.

"You have reached Sarah Sawyer's phone. I can't answer the phone right but please leave me a message, cheers!"

He glanced at Sherlock surreptitiously and lowered his voice, "Sarah, It's me, John. We just landed at Luton... I'm so, so sorry. Please call me back? Let me take you to dinner? Love you, call me. Bye."

"Is she still mad at you?"

John gave Sherlock a "don't you start" look that had no effect whatsoever on Sherlock.

"What did you expect?" he said after the short staring match, "You made me cancel our first long weekend away since we got back together to go chase perverts across France."

"I didn't make you do anything," Sherlock actually sounded a little hurt, "I just pointed out how I needed your help if I was to stop a serial killer with a preference for little girls' hands."

John had nothing to say to that so he kept quiet and pointedly ignored the other man, looking out into the darkening evening.

Sherlock was right, if his relationship with Sarah was ruined, he had no one to blame but himself. He was addicted, he realised, he craved the rush he got from running with Sherlock Holmes. Who wouldn't be? He was solving crimes, saving people. He had tried to explain to Sarah how lucky he was that a man like Sherlock Holmes would want him around. He was privileged to be the one person Sherlock Holmes wanted around, annoying though he could be, the man was remarkable. Sarah agreed with that but, as she rightfully pointed out, he wasn't sleeping with Sherlock but with her and with came certain expectations. He could see why she would be furious with him, he would go anywhere with Sherlock at a moment's notice but not to Brighton for a long weekend planned a month in advance with the woman he professed to love. One of them had to give in and there was more of a future with her than with him.

'I must be better,' he decided, 'I must stand by my woman as a true gentleman should and to Hell with Holmes.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Please call me back," John looked around to make sure Sherlock had not been close enough to hear the growing desperation in his voice, "You can't still be mad at me..."

John walked to the couch and let himself fall heavily on it. Sherlock popped out of the kitchen the second John's bum touched the cushions so John guessed his flatmate had been waiting for him to finish his call.

"She's still not answering," he sighed.

Sherlock gave him his "what makes you think I'm interested" look that did not fool John for a second. He picked up his violin and brought it to his chin.

"What will you do then?" Sherlock finally asked after plucking a couple of strings, seemingly at random.

That decided him, "You're right, I can't just it here complaining! I'm going over to her house," John stood and went to fetch his jacket, "I'm not listening to you torture that thing for hours, either."

Sherlock said nothing and started plucking at the strings pensively. John left him to it.

#

He rang the doorbell five times before he gave up and rang the landlord's instead.

The entry-phone crackled a bit before a voice came through, "Yes?"

"Uh, good evening," John said, "I'm Doctor John Watson, Doctor Sawyer's boyfriend? I was wondering if you had seen her or talked to her today? I can't reach her at home or at work."

"Hmm," the voice crackled again, "Can't say as I have. Sorry. Last I saw her, she was going to work yesterday morning."

"Alright," John's spirits dropped and a cold feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, "thank you. Sorry for disturbing you. Good night."

"My pleasure, good night," the entry-phone clicked and went silent.

Watson zipped his jacket and readjusted his hat. Where should he knock next? What would Sherlock Holmes do?

He smiled thinking about the troubles he had gotten himself in by doing what Sherlock Holmes did. It had also gotten him out of them, incidentally. He looked around him, trying to do that thing Sherlock did where he noticed everything around him and saw connections. There was a drunk teenager two houses down weeing in his mum's potted plant... No that wasn't good enough, Sherlock would have been able to tell him why he knew that was his house and what those plants were and probably when they had last been watered. It was every bit as difficult trying to pluck something out of thin air without some kind of start as he had thought. He wasn't half bad at it most of the time so long as Sherlock provided the lead.

_Try again_, he told himself,_ this time start with something you are more familiar with_.

He looked at the closed curtain of Sarah's living room and noticed a faint flicker of blueish light.

_Aha_! He thought. Sarah always left the TV on when she was planning to go out in the evening to discourage any burglars. Sarah had some fairly predictable patterns, she had Friday evenings off, which he usually didn't have, so on those days she either went home or had drinks with her teacher friend, what's-her-name with the French boyfriend. He remembered how to get to her house even if he didn't remember her name. He groaned at having to go all the way to Hackney but at least it would give him enough time to remember her name.

#

"Hi, Jan," he said jovially as the door opened.

"John! Hi! Er," she looked inside nervously, he could hear the clinking of glasses and chatter, "I hope you don't mind if I don't invite you in. Marc's parents are here..."

"No, not at all. The baby thing! Right! I remember," he said quickly, "I just had a quick question then I'll be out of your hair. I was just wondering if you'd talked to Sarah recently. I can't seem to get in touch."

Jan fidgeted with the chain, "Well, she was pretty mad at you," she said apologetically, "but no, we were supposed to go to a play last night but she never showed. She didn't call and then I forgot all about it what with Marc's family coming from France..."

"Oh, okay," the feeling in his stomach became colder and heavier, "could you tell me which theater you were going to?"

"Apollo Victoria," she said, "we were supposed to meet at half seven at Victoria rail."

"Okay, great," he took note of the name, "cheers."

"John," he turned back to the door, "you look worried. Do you think we should talk to the police?"

He shook his head vigorously, more for his own benefit than hers, "She has to have been missing for 24 hours before we can report her missing."

"She's probably working and forgot to sign in," Jan said firmly, willing it so.

"Yeah, probably," he said but he had already stopped at the clinic, "See you!"

He counted on his fingers, Two hours, he said, in two hours I can report her missing. Would that be overreacting?

The problem, he thought, with helping Scotland Yard with some of its most difficult cases is that it makes you realise the kind of nutters out there and all of a sudden you become paranoid.

He really ought to go home and wait for her to contact him when she felt like it.

#

He didn't have a clue of what he was looking for. John laughed silently at himself for thinking that he could somehow find Sarah, who could be anywhere in one of the biggest cities, in the world by retracing her steps.

The two witches in the posters seemed to be mocking him. The good one whispering in the ear of the wicked one who smirked. Look at Watson, they were probably saying, he thinks he's some kind of detective. He thinks he's Sherlock Holmes. It stung even more because he had promised to take Sarah to see Wicked but she had decided to go with her friends instead. He had even already bought the tickets even though it did not appeal to him at all.

He felt a touch of resentment creep up on him but quashed it. He was worried about her and he was responding with anger. He needed to find her and sort things out with her.

Sherlock could do it, he thought, easily. But would he? He would probably think it dull, foolish and beneath him. But maybe...maybe he would do it for John... It couldn't hurt to ask.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Oh, stop your fidgeting!" Sherlock grabbed John's hands and pulled them apart, stopping him from cracking his joints again, "That sound is driving me mad! I can't think when you're doing that!"

"Er...Sherlock?" he tried pulling back but Sherlock was holding one of his hand in each one of his. His grip was like a vice, unconcerned as he was of hurting him.

"I'm doing you a favour, as a friend," Sherlock continued, punctuating every syllable with a jerk of John's arms, "She's probably off sulking somewhere silly, eating pints of Haagen-Dasz..."

"Sherlock!" John snapped then lowered his voice as several heads turned towards them, "Let go of my hands!"

"Oh," Sherlock looked down and found his fingers interlocked with John's, "Really John," John coloured at the dismissing and disdainful tone in Sherlock's voice, "You focus on the most meaningless details."

He did let go of John's hands, however, leaving him feeling embarrassed but confused about what.

"Right!" Sherlock clapped his gloved hands together and brought them to his face, squinting pensively at the theatre front. He strode up the steps three at a time without difficulty on those long shanks of his. John joined him just as he had a quick look back outside from the atrium. He had just the time to notice how Sherlock melted right into the background in his black trenchcoat and be slightly amused at the effect of a pasty white floating head before Sherlock set off again, towards the exit, "This way."

He set off at a quick pace towards the side of the theatre, dodging the crowds and cabs that continually clogged the streets around Victoria Railway Station just opposite the theatre.

"Sherlock," John called out, slightly out of breath, "why are we going this way?"

"Because," he answered, "As Sarah's ticket was not in her flat, we must assume that she intended at least to come to the theatre. We know she left the clinic at six, the nearest underground station is two minutes on foot, by the most direct route, it would have taken her twenty minutes and one line change to get to Victoria. The Apollo Victoria is one minute away from the tube exit. At half-six, this place would have been packed with theatre-goers and tourists looking for the West End experience so it is highly unlikely that your girlfriend could have been attacked, kidnapped or run over without anyone noticing."

They stopped by a narrow alley. It took John only a moment to identify one side as being the back of the theatre and the old artists' entrance, opposite it was another tall brick building covered in illegible graffiti. Papers and old theatre brochures littered the alley, and two skips stood untidily halfway down the alley, they seemed to have been emptied in a hurry and dropped back in their place with little care.

"So..." he turned to Sherlock, "Why are we back here?"

"Because if her friends had been queuing outside or in the atrium they could not have failed to see Sarah if she had gone that way, "walked a short distance down the alley and just stood there, apparently doing nothing but John was familiar with his friend's body language and his posture said 'I'm thinking very hard, bother me at your own peril'.

John stood back and waited, his stomach loosening up a bit now that he had the best detective in the world looking for his missing girlfriend. The thrill of the chase had something to do with it too, it was a familiar and comforting feeling.

"All right! I'll take it!" John was startled as Sherlock swooped around and took him briefly by the shoulders, giving him a small shake.

"Take what?" John asked, bewildered.

"The case!" Sherlock exclaimed, his face looked set and there're was fire in his eyes, he was excited and that did not bode well for Sarah.

"What case?" John's voice came out low an dark with dread.

"Ah, John, yes," Sherlock looked a little cowed. He came back to stand in front of John, "I'm sorry but it seems Sarah was, after all, the victim of some foul play."

He pulled John in an awkward and stiff embrace and patted his back mechanically, "So sorry, there, there. It's going to be okay."

John was so stunned he did not pull away. It was the first time Sherlock hugged him of his own free will. John wasn't really one to go for man-hugs, not even with his dad, but it did not escape him that, in spite of the inexpressiveness of Sherlock's tone and stiffness of the embrace, this was a momentous occasion. A warm feeling started to spread in his chest until his conscience reminded him of the meaning of Sherlock's words and the fact that they were two grown men hugging in an alley in full view of the thousands of passers-by in the busy streets behind them, not to mention the pub at the other end of the alley. He pulled away gently so as not to offend Sherlock when he had made such a superhuman effort and cleared his throat. He straightened his jacket and his mind.

"I had a bad feeling about it," he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket, "Sarah's not the type to avoid a fight. I should have listened toy instinct and reported her missing sooner."

"It would have made no difference," Sherlock said as he started dragging him along purposefully, "the police would have taken their time because you do not have enough reason to their taste. Besides, you have me."

"I do at that," John felt a little relieved of guilt, "I guess if anyone stands a chance of finding her is you."

"That's right. No need to thank me," Sherlock stopped once more outside the theatre's front doors, "Could you go fetch me a programme?"

#

They sat in their living room at 221b Baker Street. Sherlock was immersed in the programme and John kept quiet so as not to interrupt the thinking process. It was hard, John was a man of action but he knew how to wait. Soldiers knew how to wait better than just about anyone. Sherlock had been intensely quiet since they had sat down in the tube at Victoria, he had only gestured for John to follow when he decided to exit briefly at Oxford Circus to send a text and then dag him back into the bowels of the city to take the Bakerloo line up to Baker Street.

Sherlock's phone rang and he fished it from his pocket and took it to his ear in a swift, gracefully fluid movement that John had tried to master himself in the privacy of his room but could not match.

"Can you get it for me?" he said into the phone, "Excellent, we'll see you tomorrow. Where do you want to meet?... Yes, I agree. Bye."

He hung up and stood up. He stretched his long limbs and turned to John, "You should go to bed," he said, "We'll be up late tomorrow and you get grumpy when you don't get enough sleep."

"I don't think I can sleep," John said, stretching is own numb legs, "I'm just going to be thinking about Sarah and how scared she must be... If she's even still alive. Sherlock, do you think someone we pissed off took Sarah? Moriarty, maybe? Who else can snatch somewhat up in an alley in full view of hundreds, if not thousands of people and not have anyone notice?"

"The only thing I am certain of at this point is that Moriarty is not involved," Sherlock said with full certainty, "I have some very interesting theories, sixteen in fact, but I will keep them to myself until I can say with more certainty what..."

He trailed off as he noticed the distant and anguished look on John's face, "John? Would you like me to play the violin for you?"

John looked up and gave him a tight smiled, the best he could manage then. He thought about it for a second, the violin would drown out the voices in his head, "Yes, Sherlock, I would like that very much, thank you."


End file.
